


The Other Side of Silence

by pocketbookangel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Blood, F/F, Ghosts, Horror, Lovecraftian, M/M, Mystery, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 16:23:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1394305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketbookangel/pseuds/pocketbookangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While investigating the murder of a psychic and her followers, Sherlock uncovers an ancient evil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

At one time, Galatea House was one of the loveliest residences in all of London. A row of graceful cherry trees shielded its white bricks and delicate stonework from the noise of the street and the idle curiosity of those hurrying by on the crowded pavement. Even now, the worn-away carvings and soot-covered windows created a welcoming air that it had never displayed in its days of beauty. It was deceptive: Galatea House held many dark secrets.

Sherlock Holmes always called himself the world's only consulting detective, but this hadn't been quite true. Until yesterday, Montague Fell had kept a small office in Covent Garden, where he indiscriminately attended to the problems of duchesses and detective inspectors alike. He wore white suits with a straw hat through all four seasons, and thoughtfully sent Sherlock clippings whenever he solved a fascinating case. "This one was a corker--would have loved your help," the accompanying note would say. Sherlock would throw the notes away, then call Gregson or Hopkins or whichever idiot copper had consulted with Montague and not him. After leaving a suitably hostile message, he would call Lestrade and tell him to keep his colleagues in line.

Montague Fell would never take a case away from Sherlock again. He was sprawled across the middle of Galatea House's drawing room, famous white jacket covered in dark blood, and his throat was slashed like someone had wanted to remove it from his body. His eyes...

"There are more bodies upstairs," Inspector Lestrade said. Sherlock always thought of Lestrade as the best Scotland Yarder, but everyone knew he had a low opinion of the Metropolitan Police. Sometimes Lestrade made Sherlock feel uneasy. When they'd first met, Lestrade had been handsome and a little dull, and now that he was older, his boyish charm had solidified into a reliable and steady manner. Occasionally, something flashed behind his brown eyes, and Sherlock wondered if Lestrade's dullness was a mask.

"You can go upstairs as soon as our photographers finish. Is John coming?" Lestrade said.

"Are they all like this?" Sherlock studied the drawing room. There were no signs of a struggle. Not a single drop of blood stained the oyster coloured walls or pale damask sofa.

"Yes. All five of them have had their throats cut and their eyes removed." Lestrade opened his notebook. "Lady Isobel Worrington, Sir David Worrington, Evalina Timson, and an unidentified female were found in the study."

"Evalina Timson. I went to one of her lectures once. Bog standard mysticism with the veneer of science. Excellent at cold readings--she could have been a detective like myself if she hadn't dedicated herself to fleecing the gullible." Sherlock hadn't been impressed by Evalina Timson's claims that spirits lived in the dark areas of the brain. Shadowy x-rays and out-of-focus photographs did not prove that a vast, unseen world was out there waiting for the enlightened ones.

Sherlock glanced coldly at the body of his rival. "Lady Isobel should have called me, not him. I don't know who killed them, but I do know why Montague is down here and the others are up there. The Worringtons were supporting Evalina Timson's organisation. They began to doubt her, so they invited her over for a private reading, a private reading that Montague was going to secretly observe. The other woman upstairs is presumably a member of Timson's group. The murderer, or murderers, is also a member--the eyes were taken for a ritual, or because of superstition."

Lestrade wasn't always easy to impress, but a quick glance at his face told Sherlock that the inspector believed his theory. "My job would be easier if it were true, if the murderer really could be seen in his victim's eyes. You never said if John was coming."

"He's with Mary. They're shopping for furniture for their new house. They really should've waited. I imagine these furnishings will be auctioned off soon and they're quite good quality, aren't they?" Sherlock stepped around the body and settled into one of the leather armchairs. "This is good. I might want to bid on this one."

"Most people would shy a bit from filling their house with murder chairs." It was there again--that flash in Lestrade's eyes that unsettled Sherlock.

"It's not like they're haunted. The chair isn't going to kill you." The clatter on the staircase meant the police photographers had finished and it was Sherlock's turn to examine the scene. He hurried up the stairs, certain he wouldn't need the full five minutes Lestrade had promised.

The gruesome scene in the study pleased Sherlock because it was exactly what he predicted. The group had been doing a ritual, an intricate circle was burnt into the wooden floor, and yellowed, time-brittle pages were strewn throughout the circle and over the bodies. It was clear what had happened. Mrs Timson had turned out the lights, then the murderers, there had to be at least two, emerged from their hiding places and attacked. They were only supposed to kill the Worringtons and the detective, but in the confusion, their employer was killed as well. This meant they weren't professionals, most likely enthusiastic amateurs recruited from Mrs Timson's group.

Sherlock picked up one of the discarded papers. It looked as if it had been torn from a book, and it was covered in drawings that matched part of the design on the floor. Lestrade would probably scold him, he had strong views about not moving evidence, so Sherlock defiantly picked up another page. Leaves twisting around bones, figures that had to be letters from an unknown language. He picked up a few more pages and stuffed them in his pockets. He didn't know why he was doing this. He might have been hoping he would be caught and Lestrade would be angry. All of Lestrade's attention would be focused on him, he would want to know if Sherlock was hiding anything anywhere else, he would tell Sherlock to take off his coat, his shirt, his trousers, everything. He imagined standing naked in the circle while Lestrade scratched the litany of unknown words into his skin. His body would come alive with pain as his blood soaked into the wood and the tangle of alien vines came to life.

The house poured its madness and desires into Sherlock's unwilling mind. He fell to the ground, dimly aware of two Lestrades. The real one, the one who would never hurt him, was screaming his name.


	2. Chapter 2

Professor Moriarty’s lecture had almost finished when Sherlock arrived at the theatre. He stood in the spotlight and ignored both the notes on his lectern and the microphone in front of him. The light reflected off the professor’s skin, turning it paler than his shirt, and made his navy suit into an inky black.

“For those of us who believe in the transmigration of the soul, there is no death. Just as the candle flame is not the candle, we are not our bodies.” His voice was low and kind, as if he were addressing each audience member in the privacy of their own room.

Sherlock watched the audience as they thrilled to the professor’s every word. They trembled at every banality, postponing the moment when they would return to the disappointment of their lives. These people invested their ordinary unhappiness with significance because they wanted to believe the universe was going to give them a second chance at the love they’d craved and never received. Somehow death would transform their indifferent father into a wise patriarch and their cold mother would long to embrace them with maternal love.

Although the professor appeared not to notice Sherlock making his way through the stalls, he concluded his lecture with a special message to any doubters who might be in the audience. “The Unseen World is real. We have a special demonstration here today, one that should please the unbeliever with its scientific rigour, but for those which have eyes, and see not, those which have ears, and hear not, the day will come when the presence of the ones who have always been with us will not be denied.”

Sherlock’s rival in the art of detection had used his famous white jacket and straw hat to save an empty seat near the front. “You’re just in time for the naughty part,” Montague said. He disregarded etiquette and returned his straw hat to its usual jaunty angle.

“Mrs Evalina Timson will now contact the other side. Complete silence, please.” The spotlight swung around and a young woman stepped forward. She was wearing a plain white shift, which became indecently transparent and clingy under the hot stage lights. Her dark hair was hidden by a metal helmet crowned with trailing wires that twisted and writhed behind her as if they were alive. The stage brightened, revealing how the wires connected Evalina to a machine covered in copper and brass. Professor Moriarty turned a dial on the side of the machine while Evalina stared at the audience with her calm blue eyes.

“My invention shows how ectoplasm is transferred from the other side, through the medium’s brain, and into our physical reality,” the professor said.

Grey and white images flickered on the screen, and the wires slithered across the stage and coiled into circles. Professor Moriarty delicately stepped aside as one of the wayward filaments tried to wrap itself around his feet. Evalina closed her eyes. Moans shook her thin body, her tongue was thick with non-human sounds, lights crackled across the screen, the Unseen World desperate to become visible.

“There’s someone here today, upstairs.” Her voice was barely audible. “Your brother says…” She started choking as the screen behind her buzzed frantically. Everyone turned around to see who had caught the attention of the spirit world.

Sherlock couldn’t remember if he had turned around or not. He’d been watching the professor make adjustments to the machine, trying to decipher the secret communications it was sending to the medium. He was taking information that had been secretly gathered earlier in the day from the gullible crowd and transforming it into incoherent nonsense that could be repeated back as truths. Everything she said was so vague as to be useless: _your mother sends her love your father says don’t be frightened of risk your brother wants you to save him._

He hadn’t turned around. Now, in his dream, he realised that if he had turned, he would have seen Inspector Lestrade sitting in the first row of the dress circle, listening attentively to the medium’s every word.

The dream faded around him. Sherlock opened his eyes to John’s front room, and the red velvet theatre dissolved into the cheerfully dingy striped sofa John and Mary both disliked.

“You’re awake.” John’s forehead was lined with worry.

“There was a murder, several murders…” The bodies arrayed in a circle, blindly waiting for justice. They’d been so alive in his memory, in his dream. It was difficult to reconcile the two Evalinas: the woman who stood in the spotlight, and the eyeless corpse, blank, pale, bloodless. Even possessed by spirits, she had never seemed anything other than fully alive as she relayed her messages in guttural tones, choking out words until she fell to her knees, and began vomiting up a viscous substance. Sherlock was close enough to the stage to see letters and faces swirled into the murky whiteness, but he knew those were an illusion. The faces in the ectoplasm reflected the medium’s own. Memory and dream were too entangled for him to describe the situation to John.

“It must have been a bad one. Greg said you fainted at the scene. He says that in the future, you’re not allowed to go investigating without bringing a doctor along.”

Sherlock tried to sit up. His body felt thick and reluctant to move. “He didn’t say that.”

“No, but I’m saying it. If it’s going to be bad, wait for me to come with you. Are you hungry?”

“You know I don’t eat while I’m working.”

John reached for the takeaway menus. “I asked the wrong question. The right question is pizza or Chinese?”

“Call Lestrade. Tell him to meet me at Galatea House. I know who did it, and once I’m there, I’ll know how.”

“So, Indian. Greg left pretty explicit directions about food and rest, and he said you would not be allowed back at the crime scene until tomorrow at the earliest.”

Sherlock waited for John to leave before calling Lestrade’s office. The unlucky sergeant who answered had trouble keeping up with Sherlock’s lengthy complaint about incompetent inspectors who couldn’t clear a case even if the murderer was delivered with _I did it_ pinned to his back.

“Messages like that usually go directly to the bin.” Somehow Lestrade had entered the room without Sherlock noticing.

“Once John returns, we’re going back to Galatea House,” Sherlock said. He felt uneasy with Lestrade in the room. Before he’d fainted at the crime scene, he’d imagined Lestrade touching him, his skin burning as unholy designs were traced and carved into his soul. He turned away, unable to meet Lestrade’s eyes, but the room was too small for real escape. He could feel, rather than hear Lestrade’s footsteps as he crossed the room.

Lestrade was behind him, breath soft against the nape of his neck. “Leave this one alone, Sherlock. There will be other cases, and you’ll be the first one called.”

Sherlock wanted to tell Lestrade that the case was practically solved, but he was afraid of what might happen if he moved away. He tried to focus his mind on the case, the quick knife work the murders required, but Lestrade had wrapped one arm around his chest and was whispering in his ear, telling him about the future, all of the fascinating puzzles that lay ahead if he would only give up on this one. Sherlock relaxed into the embrace, barely moving as Lestrade rested his head on his shoulder.

“John will be back soon. Rest now,” Lestrade said. He arm tightened around Sherlock.

“No, you need to take us back—” Sherlock gasped as Lestrade’s lips finally met the bare skin of his neck. Unexpected and dizzying, the slow kisses sparked electricity down his spine. Lestrade’s other hand had worked its way inside his waistband, but he was moving too slowly for Sherlock. He wanted to face Lestrade, pin him to the sofa, and possess him completely. He tried to pull back so they could face each other, but Lestrade resisted.

“Promise me.” The urgency in Lestrade’s voice had nothing to do with sex. “Promise me you’ll forget about this case.”

Sherlock refused to make any promises. He moaned as Lestrade’s soft kisses became fierce, tongue and teeth marking his skin, but he refused to make any promises.


	3. Chapter 3

The crystal ball set unobtrusively on the white-painted Queen Anne table was the only clue as to the source of Irene Adler’s wealth. She knew what her clients liked and had become rich by giving it to them. They wanted to be reassured, to know that the sins of their past would never catch up to them and they would always outrun the furies whose wings crashed against their windows.

She’d learned early in her career that no matter how clearly she explained Death was metaphorical rather than literal, turning over a confusing or dark card would result in a much smaller cheque. Her small, genuine talent wouldn’t allow her to lie, but she’d learned the art of presenting the truth. Diplomacy and calculated veracity had bought her a wardrobe filled with designer dresses, a flat in Kensington, and the love of the kind and beautiful woman who was sleeping in the next room.

Professor Moriarty approved of the way Irene’s gold-flecked wallpaper set off his dark suits. Her rooms were tranquil spaces designed for those who were blessed by fortune, their only flaw was their lack of books. He’d offered her some of his own publications, after all, most of her clients could be found in his audience, but she had rudely declined. Sometimes, when Irene was acting more difficult than usual, he would remind himself that he could have her sacrificed at any time. It was only thanks to his benevolent and merciful nature that she was still breathing the air of London instead of rotting away in a littoral cave.

Irene curled up on her ivory sofa and shuffled her deck of custom cards. Moriarty had called shortly after midnight and claimed that it was urgent, but now he seemed content to stroll around her front room, smiling at nothing. She wished she had a deck of cards just for the professor, nothing but ruined towers and scavengers howling at the moon.

“Irene, my dear. How would you like to visit Australia? I’ve been invited to lecture at the University of Melbourne and I need a skilled medium to assist with the demonstration.” Moriarty leaned over her shoulder and plucked one of the cards from her deck. “The Guardian Angel, how apropos.” The Guardian Angel, a silvery glow, white wings, hands outstretched over a brother and sister. It was the card Irene had commissioned to replace The Devil.

“I read the newspapers. I saw what happened to the last woman you tricked into parading around with a metal hat.” Irene turned over the top card. “Ten of Swords. Stabbed anyone in the back recently?”

“I said I needed a skilled medium, not a fabulist who panders to superstitions. I need a scientist, like your protégé. She can help me on stage, and you could come along to make sure she doesn’t get lonely at night. Is she here?” Jim raised his voice. “Molly? Come out, love.”

“Leave her alone, Jim.”

Molly emerged, bewildered by sleep. Her long hair gave her the look of a pre-Raphaelite maiden despite her boxy pyjamas. The last time he’d seen her, her face had been wet with tears, which was sweet in its own way.

“It’s been such a long time, Molly. Irene tells me the two of you have been doing such interesting things. A few weeks ago, I read a very thought-provoking article, _Some Experiments with Automatic Writing_. It was signed MH. Perhaps you weren’t ready to discuss your new hobby with your colleagues.”

“What do you want?” Molly knew she should have published anonymously, but a secret part of her wanted to flaunt her new ability and let everyone know that the universe had chosen to speak through her.

“I have a question I need answered.”

“You don’t have to do this, Molly,” Irene said, but her slightly raised eyebrow acknowledged that giving in to Moriarty’s request for an automatic writing session was the fastest way to get rid of him.

“It’s fine,” Molly said. She left Irene to entertain their unwelcome guest. After the first time, she’d found it easier to work alone.

_It’s fine_ , she repeated to herself as she lit a white beeswax candle in front of the mirror on Irene’s dressing table. She picked up a small mirror with her left hand and held the pen in her right. _It’s fine._ She angled the mirror until a path of flames opened before her. She watched herself step through the mirror’s silver frame on to the first light, rejoicing as the fire lapped at her bare feet, purifying her. The flames stretching out forever, and every step brought her closer to the fire that burned at the centre of the world.

The mirror crashed to floor and broke the spell. Someone turned the lights on, but the ordinary boards beneath her feet felt as insubstantial as milkweed, ephemeral and untrustworthy compared to the path she had been wandering. She felt Irene gently place her dressing gown over her shoulders, and the world began to solidify and become familiar.

Moriarty plucked the crumpled paper from the dressing table and read the three words that were scrawled all over the page. “ _Get Sherlock, brother_. Well, someone has one thing on her mind.” He deliberately folded the paper, smoothing the laddered triangles where Molly’s pen had caught. “I appreciate this. I really do.” He took Molly’s hand and gave it an avuncular squeeze. “My dear, you have helped me more than you could imagine.”

Irene and Molly collapsed on opposite ends of the bed once the door was securely closed behind Moriarty.

“I didn’t mean—I don’t know why I wrote that.”

“Of course you don’t. That’s why it’s called automatic writing.”

“I don’t feel like that for him anymore.”

Irene didn’t ask if she was talking about Sherlock Holmes or Jim Moriarty. Instead, she slid one scarlet-tipped foot under the edge of Molly’s pyjamas. “Do you think I should try making the acquaintance of Sherlock’s brother before the professor does? Oh, I wish your spirits had been chattier tonight.”

Molly sighed as Irene’s foot moved higher. She knew what Irene was going to ask, but it was always nice when Irene tried to be persuasive.

“I know it’s exhausting and you have work tomorrow, but if you could do one more session? Ask them why, what do they want with Mycroft Holmes.”

Molly shook her head. “You told me not to ask questions. Keep an open mind for anything that might come.”

“Maybe if you’re really relaxed and open, the universe will know what we want without asking.”

Professor Moriarty stood outside on the pavement and watched until the bright light in Irene’s bedroom window was replaced by a faint glow, unnoticeable unless you knew it was there, a candle and a mirror. Molly and Irene could do whatever they liked now because he had his answer. Get Sherlock.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock was already at the morgue when Molly arrived in the morning. After commenting on the dark circles under her eyes, he requested a coffee with two sugars and to see the bodies from the latest tabloid sensation, _Billionaire's Row Orgy Leads to Murder_. In her half-awake state, she let Sherlock do as he pleased, while she sleepily drank the coffee he’d wanted. It was too sweet for her, so she set it down on one of the tables and hoped Sherlock wouldn’t notice.

The body in front of him, Evalina Timson, Professor Moriarty’s late colleague, absorbed all of his attention, leaving none for his drink. Sherlock had left her partially covered, but he’d rolled her over so he could examine the marks on her scalp. Small red scabs, irregularly distributed, had been hidden by her long dark hair.

“It looks like the wires from that metal hat actually went under the skin. Fascinating. The last time she did a public exhibition with Moriarty’s machine was a week before her murder, but these marks look new. It’s possible they were made on the morning of the murder. Moriarty is attached to his toy, so it’s unlikely she would use it on her own. Professor Moriarty, have you seen the faces he pulls when he thinks no one is watching? How could you have dated him?” Sherlock’s gloved fingers gently followed the line of dots across the parietal ridge.

“It wasn’t really dating,” Molly said. “We went to dinner, I had some questions about his book—”

“It doesn’t matter, you’re happier now. Domestic bliss suits you.” Sherlock looked up from the body and stared at Molly, who tried not to blush. It was an old habit, waiting for Sherlock to observe and comment on whatever she’d happened to miss when looking into the mirror. “Who is _she_?” Sherlock smugly waited for Molly’s reaction.

“She’s nice.” Molly refused to show any surprise at Sherlock’s insight. If she asked, he would probably say that the love bite above her collarbone was too small to have been made by a man, or some other absurdity. Molly had noticed that Sherlock tended to hide his lucky guesses under details and rapid speech. “It’s going well, really well. I mean… she travels a lot, but we’re thinking of taking a class together, maybe Spanish cooking or yoga.”

“That sounds lovely,” Sherlock said, but _how incredibly boring_ was written all over his face.

“Or erotic massage,” Molly added.

“Something useful then.” Sherlock took out his magnifying glass. “I wish you’d talked to Moriarty about that machine of his. I assumed it was a lot of flashing lights, but it looks like it makes a physical connection with the user. Why would it do that? Maybe she wasn’t an accomplice, maybe she was hypnotized into believing she was truly contacting spirits. She would be disoriented by the physical pain, open to suggestion.”

“So you don’t believe it’s real?”

“Of course not.”

The certainty in Sherlock’s voice reminded Molly of Irene. She wondered what he would say if he knew about the automatic writing. It was overwhelming, it was real, all of that power wanting to talk to her, through her. The first message she’d received, the one for Moriarty, yes, that one could have come from her own subconscious. The second one, the one for Irene, that one had to be a message from somewhere else.

“I should send Lestrade to one of those massage classes, or Spanish cooking. His kitchen skills are limited to adding pasta to hot water.”

“Why would you…”

“He’s interested in a relationship with me and some of my recent actions could be seen as returning his interest.” Sherlock looked as if he was still examining the body in front of him, but the uncertainty in his voice suggested he was avoiding eye contact.

“That sounds—”

“Anything personal will have to wait until this case is finished. He doesn’t want me working on it, so if you see him, I haven’t been here.” Sherlock tucked his magnifying lens back into his pocket.

“I’ve been working alone all morning,” Molly said.

“And if you do see him, tell him John and I are going to watch football at a pub, we are definitely not planning on ruining the integrity of his crime scene by breaking into a house where murder was committed.” He picked up the half-empty coffee and headed for the door.

“Sherlock, you do know that honesty is the basis of any healthy relationship,” she called after him.

Sherlock stopped. “Healthy relationships, Molly. I hope your girlfriend knows she’s very lucky.”

\--

The gate outside Galatea House swung open before Sherlock or John could touch it, almost as if it was eager to welcome them into the garden. It was too late in the season for the cherry trees to show their full beauty, but John thought he could see some unexpected splashes of colour hidden in the green leaves. Large-flowering clematis vines climbed around the trees and over the house’s white bricks, leaving the air heavy with their scent.

“We’ll go around the side. If anyone sees us, we’ll say we’ve come about the drains,” Sherlock said.

“Won’t Greg let us in? I don’t know how believable you are as a plumber.” John raised his eyebrows slightly. “The coat,” he said.

Sherlock pulled out a red hat emblazoned with _Elite Heat & Plumbing_. “You should’ve brought one. We’ll say you’re a trainee who hasn’t yet earned a hat.”

“You’re not going to need that. There’s a policeman at the door and I think he’s waving us over.”

\--

Lestrade slowly repeated what he’d just heard. “He’s watching football.”

“At a pub,” Molly said.

“Do you think he knows they don’t play at nine on a Tuesday morning?”

“Probably not. I did tell him that if he’s your boyfriend, he needs to start being more honest, or at least more believable.”

Lestrade stared at her blankly.

“Sorry, was I not supposed to know?”

“He’s my boyfriend?” Lestrade almost laughed. “He must want something. Why would he say that?”

“I don’t know. He sounded serious.” Sherlock’s behaviour would have been confusing even if she’d had a full night of sleep. “Maybe he wants me to ask you if you want… no, that’s too indirect for Sherlock.”

“Yeah, it is. I’ll ask him about it when I see him. I told young Hopkins he’d have Sherlock to himself this morning, but I think I’ll stop by Galatea House on the way back to the office.”

Lestrade tried to concentrate on the results from the first autopsy. If these murders went unsolved, it could end his career, but he couldn’t stop returning to what Molly had said. From the day he’d first met Sherlock, he’d been kept at a distance, reminded that all Sherlock wanted was the freedom to work, to exercise his frightening intelligence. Maybe now that he’d experienced friendship and had learned to trust others, at least a little, Sherlock was ready for a different kind of relationship. It seemed impossible, but Lestrade allowed himself to imagine what it would be like when they finally kissed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poisoned coffee is ~~stolen from~~ inspired by Keigo Higashino's _Galileo_ (if you decide to read the books, it's not a spoiler).
> 
> This is almost finished! Two chapters (or one & epilogue) left.

Breakfast at the Diogenes Club was designed for stronger stomachs and doughtier nerves than Professor Moriarty’s. Conversation may have been banned, but the members made up for it by scraping their knives against their plates and taking giant bites of toast that sent crumbs flying. He wondered why his masters had lead him to Mycroft Holmes. The message Molly had transcribed was very clear; he needed to get Sherlock’s brother. His master’s ways were incomprehensible to humans, but even they must see that the man sitting in front of him eating a soft-boiled egg had the spiritual power of a rabbit.

The only part of the morning that wasn’t a complete waste of his time was the tour of the club. On the shelves of the reading room he found a complete set of his books, including a copy of _New Revelations in Photography_ which he’d tried to have suppressed after the revealing photographs were proved to be a hoax. It was encouraging to know that some of the most powerful men in the country were fans of his work, even if they didn’t understand its importance.

Outside the club, Mycroft shook his hand and promised to sponsor his membership. Polite, impersonal--instead of saying _thank you_ and dropping his hand quickly, Moriarty tried to slide his fingers over Mycroft’s wrist, tried to look into his eyes, desperate to find the spark of spirituality he needed. Barely hidden surprise and annoyance, but nothing that suggested hidden depths. Moriarty stumbled a little, blamed his odd actions on a momentary dizziness, and pocketed Mycroft’s mobile phone. He kept up his feigned illness until the taxi was a few streets away. Mycroft may have lacked any connection to a world greater than London, but he was very observant.

How would Mycroft Holmes compose a text? _My dear Miss Hooper, my brother Sherlock is in dire need of your assistance. Please meet him at Galatea House as soon as possible. All will be explained. xxx Mycroft Holmes_

Moriarty deleted _xxx_ and replaced them with a dash, then he added some exclamation marks. Sometimes rigid men like Mycroft could be surprisingly effusive.

\--

Lestrade tried to keep a neutral expression as he faced babbling voices and outstretched hands. _The Daily Mail_ had published leaked crime scene photos that showed all of the victims fully dressed, but it didn’t stop the rumours of ritual sex and orgies. Before the press conference, Donovan had handed him a thick file with the most recent coverage of the murders. “I’d avoid the telly—these are discreet and respectful in comparison,” she had said.

The first reporter asked his question. “Is this an orgy gone wrong?”

“Was sex magic involved? If these murders could happen anywhere, is all of London in danger?” one shouted from the back row.

“Are the killers out there still?”

“Is it true the police are completely baffled and have called in Sherlock Holmes?”

“Would you characterise these murders as the work of a vampire?”

“A vampire?” Lestrade turned to look at the reporter who had asked the question. He recognised her from earlier press conferences: earnest questions that led to outrageous headlines.

“Not a real one,” the reporter clarified. “Did Lord and Lady Worrington believe they were vampires?”

Lestrade covered his microphone. “Where are they getting vampires?” he asked Donovan.

“Apparently, in the 18th century, when the house was first built…” They were both very aware of the room full of reporters straining to make out their words. “Not relevant to the current investigation.” She spoke clearly into her microphone. “The history of the Worrington family and any hobbies they may have had are not relevant to the current investigation.”

“You didn’t answer the question about Sherlock Holmes? Are the police that desperate?”

Donovan waited for Lestrade to answer.

“No,” he finally said. “Sherlock Holmes is not officially consulting on this case because one of the victims was a colleague of his. He is providing us with information regarding his earlier investigations into the séances held by one of the victims, including other private sessions at Galatea House.”

Sherlock had never acknowledged Montague Fell as a colleague, and had reacted badly the one time Lestrade had referred to him as a rival. It was before Baker Street, before John, when Sherlock was still living in the bedsit on Hogarth Road. Lestrade had called Sherlock to warn him that he was coming over with a case, but when he’d arrived, Sherlock had burrowed into his duvet and refused to move. “Not getting out of bed for an ordinary domestic,” he’d said.

“Fine, stay there. You’re not the only private detective in London. Your rival in Covent Garden—”

“I’m not a private detective and I don’t have _rivals_.” Sherlock emerged from his bed, revealing that he also didn’t have pyjamas. Lestrade didn’t know where to look: the bed warm from Sherlock’s body, the floorboards creaking under Sherlock’s bare feet. Sherlock claimed to be an expert at fencing and martial arts, and the lean muscles under his pale skin suggested it was true.

“Everyone thinks it’s the girlfriend, you _arrested_ the girlfriend, but you don’t believe it was her. Why? She was the only one in the flat at the time, the victim’s wife, the other obvious suspect, was in Edinburgh at the time.”

“Put something on.” Lestrade found Sherlock’s crumpled dressing gown and tossed it at him. It was better, but Sherlock was still too naked for Lestrade’s peace of mind.

Before Sherlock had distracted him, the facts of the case had been clear in Lestrade’s mind. “The press got hold of the fact that the poison was in the coffee, what they don’t know is that it was in the cafetière as well as the mug. It’s the kind that only makes one cup. He makes her a cup of coffee, he makes himself one, she slips the poison in. Why go to the trouble of putting the poison in the coffee maker when it would be easier to poison the mug,” he said.

“It was the wife.” Sherlock yawned theatrically. “Anything else, inspector?”

“She was in Edinburgh—”

“Since when has geography deterred malice? She knew her husband only drank coffee when ‘entertaining’ his girlfriend. Before leaving for the weekend, the wife fixed the poison to the French press with gelatine, or some other substance that would dissolve in hot water. If he’s a good boy and drinking coffee alone, the first cup is safe. The top layer melts and the poison is washed away when he cleans. If he makes two cups, it’s murder and that’s where your lot comes in.” Sherlock crawled back under the duvet.

_He wants you to stay with him._

You don’t know that.

Sherlock’s voice was muffled by his bedding. “I don’t have _rivals_ ,” he said.

_I can help you get him._

No. It’s not what I want, not what he wants.

_What do you want?_

Lestrade couldn’t answer. It was easy to lie to himself, but he could never lie to his brother.


End file.
